


At a Loss for Words

by JaybirdSpectacular



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Racism, Fodlan typical attitudes towards foreign countries, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Spoilers, POV shifts, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Ships hinted at, Some Humor, a bonus post-timeskip scene, but mostly Ashe POV, but this is meant to be cute, claude is there for a second, language learning, so I got a little mad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28542618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaybirdSpectacular/pseuds/JaybirdSpectacular
Summary: Language learning in the pursuit of friendship! That was Ashe's goal at first, but he quickly comes to find some things go beyond spoken word."Action needs to be taken. Actions are louder than words, aren’t they?That’s when the idea hits him – why not both actions and words?"(alt title; Ashe is a shitty polyglot)
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert & Dedue Molinaro, Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert & Petra Macneary, Cyril & Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert
Comments: 19
Kudos: 33
Collections: Quality Fics





	At a Loss for Words

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my two lovely beta readers!

The idea strikes Ashe one evening early in the Harpstring Moon as he's cooking with Dedue in the kitchen, the smell of grilled vegetables and meats filling the air. The windows are open, letting in the cool springtime breeze.

It took some convincing, but Ashe has finally managed to rope Dedue into cooking with him semi-regularly. Dedue is an incredibly talented chef; every moment they spend together teaches Ashe something new, expands his culinary knowledge. For that, he is grateful.

And, more importantly, he is getting to know Dedue better. As taciturn as Dedue normally is, it can be difficult to learn anything about him. But Ashe knows, from the thoughtful pauses he takes before adding an ingredient, from the gentle care he takes when slicing vegetables, from how carefully arranged his patch of garden is in the greenhouse, that Dedue is nothing but meticulous. More than just a persona of a devoted vassal, he has a lot on his mind.

If only Ashe could get Dedue to _speak aloud_ any of his thoughts. Ashe is the kind of person who needs to hear exactly what a person is thinking. He wants to be Dedue’s friend! He wants to know what Dedue is thinking about! He needs words!

But he can’t get any stories from Dedue. They had become closer, right? He wants to know more. About Dedue. About his childhood. Duscur, obviously, is close to Dedue’s heart no matter how he tried to deny it. Ashe doesn’t want to push if Dedue is uncomfortable, so he will stop if Dedue complains. But Dedue hasn’t said a word either way.

Ashe wonders how he can prove that he cares. Talking, obviously, isn’t doing it. Spending time together seems to be helping, but that just leaves Dedue subject to Ashe’s incessant chatter when there’s a silence to be filled. One-sided chatter that probably just bothers Dedue.

Action needs to be taken. Actions are louder than words, aren’t they?

That’s when the idea hits him – why not both actions and words?

Ashe slams down the ladle he was holding so abruptly that even Dedue startles.

“Sorry. Sorry! But Dedue, I’m going to learn the Duscur language!”

Dedue stares at him a moment, face impassive, brow quirked. Ashe realizes now how completely out of context his outburst was, and he awkwardly averts his eyes to the floor.

“It sounds…fun?” he offers as explanation. “If you want, I’d love if you’d start speaking it with me?”

The corner of Dedue’s mouth quirks. “If you can say this word correctly, nearly perfect, I will help you.”

Dedue says the word, and Ashe listens carefully. He has never heard Duscur before. The word is soft and deep, almost like it could belong in a poem. Ashe repeats it.

Or, he tries, but whatever unholy sound comes out of his mouth leaves Dedue blinking, his mouth drawn tight. Ashe thinks he sees a quirk to Dedue’s lips, but Dedue wouldn’t laugh at him. Would he?

“Keep practicing.”

Ashe will never, ever know what exactly he said, and he’s not sure he wants to.

\---

Ashe spends the rest of the Harpstring Moon in the monastery library in between training sessions for their first Church sanctioned mission. Ashe’s plan is to read about the Duscur language, culture, and history, as the three subjects are intrinsically tied together. He’s sure that events like Tragedy of Duscur are described using specific words in the Duscur language. But, after hours of searching through the monastery library, it proves to be a bust. The only books dictating the history of Duscur revolve solely around the Tragedy, the only passages detailing how Duscur relates to Faerghus. The seventh book he tries has him slamming the cover closed. It’s amazing, astounding even, that despite Duscur’s long history, it always seems to center around Faerghus.

It’s obvious he’s not going to find anything here.

He groans as he drags a hand down his cheek, brain whirling to think of where he can find better information. He’s trying to learn this language to be closer to Dedue, yet Ashe doesn’t always want to pester Dedue, who has his own life to deal with. Ashe needs to study on his own.

And, Dedue’s friendship means a lot to him. Ashe is scared that if he pressures and pesters, Dedue will think that Ashe only wants something from him. Which, Ashe supposes, that’s true to an extent. But it’s friendship!

Ashe has to approach this carefully, as to not hurt Dedue. He wants to show him actual, mindful progress.

So, the plan is to build up a base of vocabulary, some grammatical knowledge, an idiom or two, then shock and surprise Dedue with how fluently Ashe can say complicated phrases like “hello” and “how many apples do you have?” and “this is a quill”. 

Not to mention that one word. Ashe is going to say that word so perfectly Saint Serios herself will sing in joyful triumph in the heavens.

It’s going to be great. Dedue is going to be so _damn_ impressed. And then they can hang out and be super close friends because Dedue is just great and Ashe really, really wants Dedue to know that.

Ashe mumbles the word under his breath. It sounds garbled coming from his throat. Would have sounded better if Ashe just stuck a wad of papers in his mouth and screamed.

He thumps his head against the bookshelf and leaves it there until a monk comes to check on him.

\---

“Ashe!” Petra calls to him as he leaves the library, another painstaking study session under his belt. He lifts his head, the tension headache budding from his neck protesting at the slight movement.

She jogs to him, her usual energy radiating off her like the sun. Her smile is beaming. Headache or no, Ashe always feels rejuvenated in her presence. “Ashe! I have hearing that you’re studying the Duscur language, yes?” She is bouncing on her heels, her hair swishing in time with her movement.

“Umm, yes. That’s right,” Ashe says. “How did you know?”

“You practice in the library! Many people have hearing of you,” she explains.

“Ah, right, I guess that would happen…” Truthfully, not many in Fódlan much care for learning other languages and never move past speaking the Fódlan tongue. And, especially with the hate Duscur faces, Ashe can imagine how strange it must seem for him to be trying, borderline traitorous, even.

Ashe doesn’t care.

“Then you must study the language of Brigid, too!” she says. “It’s beautiful, I promise you. And much easier than the Fódlan language. We’ll start right away! Listen.” She says a few rapid phrases, and she is right. It is beautiful. Petra’s bright personality shines through her words, full of joyful emotion. Brigid sounds empathic and bright, just like her. It’s like she’s singing.

Beautiful, but he has no idea how to replicate what she just said. He’s not sure if his clumsy mouth can even begin to form the words _half_ as well as her.

He blinks at her as she waits patiently for him to reply.

“I…umm…sure?”

“You should say this for yes.” She says the word, short and cute, and Ashe repeats. His mouth and tongue are still tired from practicing the Duscur word again and again. Despite how simple it sounds, the Brigid word moves his mouth in ways neither Fódlan nor Duscur does, and he can feel how inelegantly it trips over his teeth, falling flat onto the solid ground.

“That was…excellent!” she says. She coughs. It almost sounds like a laugh. It’s a laugh, isn’t it?

“I… thank you, Petra. I would love to learn from you!” Ashe says even as he fights a blush down. It’s not a lie. He’s learning Duscur to be closer to Dedue, to be a better friend. And Petra is his friend, too. Admittedly, he doesn’t know much about her yet. They have only had a few interactions, most of them Petra asking Ashe about life as a commoner in Fódlan. He has to admit that their exchanges have not been very balanced, with Ashe always doing the talking.

A chance, then, to strengthen his friendship with Petra and learn more about her, as well. He’s lucky, both to call her friend and to have the chance to learn from her.

“You teach me the ways of the commoners, Ashe! Of course, I will teach you the language of Brigid!” she hums and says another melody like phrase in Brigid again.

He stutters, the Duscur word coming to his tongue before he bites it down. It’s a struggle to force his mind to switch to a language he knows, “I…I’m sorry?”

She repeats it, then says in Fódlan, “I will speak only in Brigid often for you! That way, you’ll have understanding far more quickly! I learned Fódlan words in this way when I first arrived here.”

When she was brought here and was forced to learn it, she means. Ashe doesn’t know much of the details, as the relationship between Brigid and the Empire is something that he is embarrassingly unfamiliar with, having grown up in the Kingdom. Roiling guilt bubbles in Ashe’s chest. To him, the language learning is just for fun. Or rather, it was.

Only a couple of weeks in, and he’s beginning to think otherwise. 

He returns her enthusiasm with a smile, “Thank you again, Petra.”

She huffs. “You still have only said one word in Brigid. Try this.” This time she speaks slower and more intoned than she had been prior.

Ashe tries to copy her musical intonation, and in his opinion, it’s pretty good!

The grimace on Petra’s face says otherwise.

\---

A late, warm afternoon in the Blue Sea Moon finds Ashe working in the greenhouse alongside Cyril, the younger boy bouncing between diligently working on his own garden and giving Ashe well-intentioned advice.

“Friends help each other out!” Cyril had said as he joined Ashe in his quiet hobby, just before kindly pointing out that Ashe had arranged his newest plants in a way that would lead them to wilting. Now, Ashe is rearranging them again, following Cyril’s capable guidance.

He’s almost certain this violet will need more light, but he doesn’t say anything as Cyril relocates it for him.

Ashe doesn’t mind. Any time spent with Cyril is nice. He always seems hesitant to admit that he has friends, tentatively spending short bursts of time with them until he scurries back to his work.

Today, however, is going well. Not much conversation passes between them after Cyril is satisfied with the rearrangements of Ashe’s patch of garden. Ashe occasionally tries to fill the silence with chatter, to which Cyril answers with grunts and short responses. Perhaps it’s better, he thinks, to let the silence come and go naturally. His attention is returned to his plants.

There’s a light clattering sound as Cyril accidently drops a packet of Western Fódlan seeds, scattering them haphazardly on the ground. He falls to his knees as he tries to gather them up, but many have already disappeared, mingled with the dirt.

Ashe joins him, trying to find the ones that Cyril missed. “Are you okay?” he asks, eyes focused to the ground.

Cyril doesn’t answer him, instead cursing under his breath, a word, strong, sharp, and unfamiliar to Ashe.

Ashe doesn’t know why he does what he does next. Maybe it’s because of Petra's repetition coaching, but without a thought in his empty head, Ashe parrots Cyril’s word. Cyril’s sharp eyes snap to Ashe.

“What did you say?” he asks. “Are you making fun of me?”

Ash reddens, realizing what he’s done. “Oh, Goddess no, Cyril! I’m sorry. It’s just Petra is coaching me in speaking Brigid, and it’s just become a habit to repeat things I don’t understand?” He ends, raised intonation, questioning his own ridiculous excuse. “But I promise I’m not making fun of you. Never.”

Cyril huffs, his nose twitching just slightly “Right. Well, that’s a word you don’t wanna repeat anyway. It’s a bad word.”

“Is it Almyran?” Ashe asks.

“Yep, I’ve forgotten a lot of it.” Ashe doesn’t believe that. “But sometimes, it just slips out, ya know?”

Ashe, being fluent in only one language, doesn’t know. “Right, I understand.”

He doesn’t. He knows it, and Cyril knows it.

Silence.

“Hey, actually, Cyril…” Ashe starts. Cyril narrows his eyes at him. Ashe hasn’t even asked his question yet!

“No,” says Cyril bluntly. “You want me to teach you a bunch of bad words, don’tcha?”

Ashe sputters, “Not only the bad ones! Not the bad ones at all! Maybe some. But no, Almyran! I’d love to hear you speak more.”

Cyril stares at him a moment, brow raised. He’s doing that thing again, where he tries to look unaffected and cool, but it’s obvious Ashe has thrown him off guard just a hair. He swallows before speaking.

“Why?”

“Because friends get to know their friends better, and it would be a great way to get to know you better! Maybe I could pick some up from you? If you want to, that is.”

“Almyra is behind me,” says Cyril. “I don’t care about it.” He’s says it very monotone, impassive. Like he’s simply repeating a quote, something he’s heard many times. Something he has been told many times, Ashe suspects. Ashe isn’t sure, exactly, about Cyril’s real feelings on Almyra. Sure, he says Fódlan is his home now, but it’s hard to forget the place you grew up.

Even now, six years after the fact, Ashe can smell the baked bread in his parent’s restaurant, hear their happy conversations. He’s sure he could perfectly intone his mother calling him and his siblings in for dinner. He wouldn’t want to forget that.

“Humor me, then,” Ashe says. “Anything you remember. It might be fun to hear how many times I can mess up a simple sentence.” Because Goddess knows that he still can’t pronounce his one Duscur word without causing a saint to weep.

It seems that appealing to Cyril’s playful nature is the key. Cyril smirks, and Ashe knows he’s got him hooked. Though, dread settles in Ashe’s gut when Cyril barks out a laugh.

“Alright! Then, let’s start with some easy phrases.”

Almyran is lyrical, easily flowing between sharp and flowing tones, weaved together intimately. It’s easy to listen to, melodic and stimulating. It’s a story, smooth passages interspaced with sudden stops.

As calming as it is, Ashe can’t help but to feel anxious by the mischievous grin Cyril sports.

Cyril doesn’t explain so clearly what he’s teaching Ashe, but Ashe promises to practice hard.

Cyril’s laughter doesn’t ease Ashe’s trepidation.

\---

Later, as Ashe is returning to his room, he mumbles the words Cyril taught him under his breath. He receives a lot of confused stares, of course, but he isn’t bothered. He’s already under scrutiny around here, anyway, after everything that went down with Lonato. Just another commoner, now. So really, he doesn’t care what these stuffy nobles think.

Suddenly, an arm is flung around his shoulders, pulling him close to someone. He looks up, surprised to see the leader of the Golden Deer house, buddying up to him like longtime friends. They’ve never spoken, not once. And yet, here he is. Very close to Ashe. Closer than Ashe ever would have liked.

“Hey there, Ashe, my dear friend,” he says. Deer friend? Does Claude want him to join his House? “What are you mumbling to yourself? Sounds interesting, from what I could pick up.”

“Cyril taught me some Almyran and I’m just trying to get it in my memory before its poofs.” He gestures with his fingers the fate of his poor Almyran, the language escaping from his fingers in a puff of empty air. Claude laughs.

“Interesting. Very interesting! And good for you, trying to learn new things. Emphasis on the trying part, But, hey. Trying is great.”

Ashe pouts, “Well, I _am_ trying, and I’m doing pretty good, if I say so myself.” He doesn’t believe that. Claude doesn’t have to know.

Claude chuckles. Oh Serios, he knows. “Of course, of course. I could understand you perfectly. I speak some myself. Being the future leader of the Alliance and all. It’d be embarrassing for a leader to not know even a little of the languages of their neighbors.”

Ashe thinks to Dimitri's lack of skill in the Duscur language and wonders how much Brigid Edelgard can speak. “C-certainly,” he stutters, afraid that the two future rulers would somehow sense his judgments and come for him.

“But back to the point. Did Cyril tell you _what_ he was teaching you?”

“Well, he taught me one swear, but the rest he said was just daily life stuff. Greetings, compliments, that kind of thing.”

Claude barks out a laugh. “Sure, sure. You’re doing great, kid. Keep at it.”

Claude turns, and heads off in another direction, towards the dining hall perhaps, the weight of his arm missing so suddenly that Ashe stumbles. Ashe pauses, thinking on what Claude said, and turns on his heel to go back to the greenhouse to speak to Cyril.

\---

Dedue finds himself having tea with Petra unexpectedly one afternoon.

“Ashe wants to be learning the Duscur language from you, yes?” Petra asks as she takes a ginger biscuit Dedue baked himself using a Duscur recipe.

Dedue has found himself here with her at her invitation to chat about training. Axes are outside her expertise. At least for now, she says.

She has already made great strides, and she claims that if Dedue trains with her, she will improve even more. Dedue is surprised that someone as bright as her would deem someone like him worthy to spend time with, but he won’t complain. She is a breath of fresh air from his class.

“Yes,” he replies, “Though, I’ve only taught him a single word.” He doesn’t mention that Ashe butchers it. Worse than any battle they’ve seen. It is certainly… endearing. Endearing, yes. That’s a safe word to describe Ashe’s desecration of his native language. 

“I would like to be learning, as well, I think,” she says. “I can be teaching you Brigid.”

Dedue regards her. He had never expected to find so many interested in learning anything about Duscur here at this school. He wants to deny her, he should, but…

“Of course, it will be my honor to learn from you.”

“Very good! Then I’ll start.”

She speaks rapidly, in a lilting voice. It’s quite lovely. Dedue finds himself mesmerized by the rhythm, zoning out as he listens to her sing-song voice.

“Okay, please repeat that.”

Dedue can only stare.

\---

“You’re serious,” Dedue says in disbelief, as he and Ashe once again head for the kitchens for their ritual cooking time, the heat and humidity of the Verdant Rain Moon weather clinging to them both.

Ashe has practiced the one, singular word again and again and again, watching his own mouth in his reflection, trying to remember how Dedue said it, how Dedue's lips formed the word. Trying to not twist and tie it with his budding Brigid or Almyran vocabulary.

It’s not perfect, and his imperfect memory certainly doesn’t help, but he’s finally got something that sounds. Close. Almost like it could be a word. Like another word wearing a costume of the word he wants to say. He’s pleased with his progress. The saints may rejoice yet.

“I practiced so hard, Dedue,” Ashe says. He wants to sound determined, but really, he thinks he sounds tired and pathetic. Maybe he is. “I’m so serious. And plus! Think about your recipes, Dedue” Dedue finally had begun sneaking Duscur cooking into their kitchen time, bit by bit, much to Ashe’s delight. “You keep having to think of Fódlan words to describe them, but wouldn’t it be so much easier and better and _accurate_ if you start telling me in Duscur?”

Dedue thinks for a moment, and Ashe quiets as Dedue sorts through his thoughts. He starts to think of counterarguments, something he could say to finally convince Dedue. The silence stretches on.

“Very well.”

“And another thing, Dedue—wait. Wait?” Ashe sputters to a stop. “Dedue. Dedue! Does that mean you’ll talk with me in Duscur?”

“A little, yes. I don’t have much time to devote to it, with my duties to His Highness and my own personal tasks."

“That’s okay! I’m trying to find resources so I can learn it on my own!” He was still struggling with that. Unfortunately. “If all you do is just talk to me occasionally in Duscur, that’s more than enough!” “But, I’m so happy. I appreciate you so much, Dedue.”

Dedue turns away from Ashe, but not before Ashe catches the small smile, the pink tinge to Dedue’s cheeks. “We’ll start as we work. I promise I’m a kinder teacher than Petra, but I won’t go easy on you.”

Ashe barely hears him, cheering in Brigid as he runs past Dedue into the dining hall.

\---

“Ashe, you are having commendable progress” says Petra, her eyes bright and wide as he answers her rapid-fire questions in Brigid where they sit in the courtyard together, enjoying the cooling Horsebow Moon weather by sipping warm tea. Were his answers perfect? Well, no. He’s fairly sure he just told Petra he wants to be a carrot.

But, he has been practicing so hard. So hard. The balancing act with Almyran and Duscur is difficult, and he’s not sure how quick of progress he’s making in any language, but he’s getting there! Petra only grimaced twice this session. Twice!

And times like this were good distractions from the chaos that had erupted around the monastery.

“Yes,” he says in Brigid. His intonation is improving, he thinks. He sounds like a child singing, but that’s okay! He’s learning. “I am good.” Petra giggles.

“Very good,” she replies. When she speaks Brigid, there is a slight lisp that adds depth to the music of her words. She says a short, expressive phrase he doesn’t understand the meaning of.

“That’s what?” he continues in Brigid. He thinks for a moment, then switches the words, “what’s that?”

Petra switches to Fódlan, “It has meaning…something like… you’re trying so hard, and I have pride in you.”

Ashe blushes, answering in Brigid, “Stop, I’m red.”

Petra nods, “You are. I think you mean ‘embarrassed’, though. Repeat.”

Ashe does, and commits the phrase to memory. He has a feeling he’s going to need it.

\---

Cyril always laughs before he teaches Ashe something new. It’s alarming, to say the least. Threatening, to say more. After his conversation with Claude, Ashe asked Cyril to at least warn Ashe when the lesson will be veering towards vulgar language.

Cyril never does, and Ashe isn’t sure Cyril cares.

“Why are you laughing? What are you teaching me?” Ashe asks, half in Almyran, half in Fódlan. It’s something new he's trying, using the target language wherever he can and using Fódlan when he doesn’t have the right words yet. It sounds… curious. Anyone who hears him must believe he’s absolutely bonkers. He’s attracted more than one glare this way. He’s reminded again that Fódlan suffers from being closed to the outside world.

For example, right now, from the shopkeeper whose brows are drawn so tight they may just tear themselves from his forehead.

“I’m not teaching you anything _bad_ ,” Cyril says, emphasizing the bad in a way that Ashe suspects is to cover for a lie, “You’re just really not good at this. Before you practice, I mean. Well, even a little bit after, too.”

Ashe mumbles some Almyran under his breath, making Cyril chortle as he pays the shopkeeper.

“Hey, _that_ was pretty good! Say stuff like that more!”

The shopkeeper, grunts as he hands them their order, “You know, it’s rude to speak in a tongue no one can understand.”

“I can understand,” says Cyril, brow raised, “and he’s talking to me anyway.”

“If you’re so worried,” Ashe adds, “maybe you should learn to understand it. Thanks for the help.” They turn, pacing quickly away before the shopkeeper can stammer a reply. Ashe sighs in relief once they’re away, nearly back to the monastery gates. “We’ll warn the others not to visit that shop.”

Cyril huffs, and says something under his breath, and Ashe swivels his head towards him. “Repeat that. That guy is a real—” he repeats the word again, and Ashe follows, saying it loud enough to draw attention from the townsfolk.

“Do you even want to know what it means? It’s something like, a person who is so full of themselves, so sure of themselves, they can’t see anything else beyond what they think. Also, it means they smell like rotten Boa fruits.”

Ashe chuckles. “Sounds about right. Thank you for teaching me, Cyril.”

Cyril rolls his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, I just don’t want to have to deal with your pouting.” He walks faster, ahead of Ashe.

“I do not pout – Cyril, I don’t! Stop laughing!” He switches to Almyran to use some of the words Cyril always laughs before teaching him as he chases Cyril through the market.

\--- 

Cyril was invited by Dedue to this little tea party he and Petra set up, to talk about what, he doesn’t know. Cyril has work to do, he doesn’t have time for this. He downs his tea in one gulp. It burns, but it doesn’t bother him.

He can’t feel his tongue.

“What did y’all want?” he asks around his scorched mouth. Petra giggles.

“Just to get to know you better,” she says. “You’re always so busy.”

“It’s nice to sit and relax with friends sometimes,” Dedue adds. “I myself have been trying to take time with others outside my class.”

Cyril considers this. Friends, huh? He sure has been making a lot of friends lately. How, he doesn’t know. But he likes the ones he has, so he can’t complain. And these two don’t seem so bad.

How should he go about this friendship thing? Oh, yeah.

“Sure. Wanna learn some bad words in Almyran?”

Petra’s eyes sparkle while Dedue's frown deepens.

\---

The approaching chill of the Wyvern Moon is staved off in the warm kitchen, where Ashe and Dedue relax after training for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion.

“And then what?” Ashe asks in Duscur, throwing in the spice as Dedue instructed him in between the lines of his story.

Dedue tells Ashe stories in Duscur. The way Dedue speaks Duscur is very poetic and soft. It has a paced, rhythmic intonation in which some words stand out more than others. It’s easy to pick out keywords. Easier now that Ashe knows what to listen for.

Dedue’s expression softens as he continues speaking in simple words.

“My sister,” he pauses. He has a soft, fond smile as he recounts the tale. The stirring of the soup is rhythmic, the scrape of the wooden spoon a slow and steady. “She made a lot of…” he says a word that Ashe doesn’t know. “That’s trouble, in Fódlan,” he explains, then continues speaking in Duscur, “She made a lot of trouble. Our parents were very mad at her.”

At least, that’s what Ashe thinks Dedue is saying. He’s not as practiced in Duscur as he is in Brigid and Almyran, unfortunately. He’s going to change that, slowly but surely.

Still, listening is easier than speaking, as his brain can fill in the gaps as he listens. Dedue’s voice is steady and flows easily when he speaks Duscur. Easy to listen to, calming, just like Dedue himself.

“She sounds good,” Ashe says and cringes, knowing he has used both the wrong tense and word. “Sorry,” he says quietly.

Dedue shakes his head. “She was…” Dedue starts, finishes in Fódlan, “wonderful.” He says the word again in Duscur as he takes the ladle, sets it to the side. “She was.”

Ashe looks up, sees Dedue’s expression, his eyes wilting, moist, but without tears.

“Can I hug you?” Ashe asks as he sets down his knife.

Dedue looks at him, brow raised. “Ask in Duscur,” he says quietly. The voice he speaks Fódlan with is stiffer than when he speaks Duscur.

Ashe has no idea how to ask that. Not correctly, anyway. He figures Dedue won’t mind if he tries something else. He has to at least try.

“Mine arms. You…” he thinks, but he can’t come up with a good verb. He settles on gesturing, though he suspects it looks like he’s gone mad, the way he wraps his arms around thin air. Dedue stares at him blankly before chuckling. Just a small sound, but Ashe feels like he’s accomplished something big.

“Yes,” says Dedue, and Ashe flings himself at his taller friend, knocking Dedue back a step with the force. His head is right at Dedue’s chest, but he doesn’t care as he squeezes him with all his might.

“I’m sorry,” he starts in Duscur, then switches to Fódlan when his meager knowledge fails him, “for bringing up painful memories. We don’t have to keep doing this.”

Dedue pats Ashe’s head. It reminds him of Christophe, just a little, how he’d ruffle Ashe’s hair when Ashe was feeling upset. Dedue answers in Duscur. “No. I feel…” another unfamiliar, gentle word follows. Ashe looks up at him, furrowed his brow as he tries to work it out. Dedue must see the confusion.

“I feel joyful.”

\---

Petra shows up to the training grounds one day, livid, her eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, mouth twisted in a grimace. Ashe steps out of her way as she makes a beeline to the weapons rack. She picks up a training sword, challenging the first fool to make eye contact with her, Felix. To everyone watching, it is more of a one-sided beating than actual training as she wails on him, the wooden sword striking his own again and again until both snap. She reaches for another, but Felix yields, an almost non-existent occurrence. 

Clearly, she’s upset. Anyone can and does see that.

And it doesn’t stop after the training incident.

The despair she’s cloaked herself in is only made darker by the contrast again her usual, positive personality. For days, she broods. It’s nothing but concerning.

Ashe tries to speak with her about it, but she won’t answer his questions. With him, she only allows conversations about learning the Brigid language. She begins focusing so much on their lessons that she won’t speak anything but Brigid to Ashe, never switching to Fódlan to explain something Ashe can’t understand.

It’s good practice, sure, but he’s worried for her. This isn’t like her. Petra is smiles, positivity, strength. Indomitable will, never bowing to those below her.

She isn’t this vengeful wrath.

Always, she’s a veritable force of nature. Now, despite the raging storm she has become, Ashe will brave the winds as long as it takes to find her at the eye of it.

He trains with her, enduring her strong blows, her stronger words. He sits with her in the dining hall, just to chat, using as much Brigid as he can, but always switching to Fódlan when he fails to find the words he needs. She’ll mumble curt responses, always in Brigid.

Her physical health doesn’t seem to be suffering, nor her attention in class. Ashe finds himself checking that she’s eaten, has done her studies, sits next to her when they share a lesson and nudges her if she starts to drift. But it’s all for naught, she’s taking care of herself just fine.

Dedue and Cyril have taken to check on her, so Ashe isn’t alone in his worrying. Between the three of them, there is almost always a watchful eye on her.

Still, he worries.

After about two weeks of this, he finds he can ask her more about her feelings in Brigid as she slowly corrects him. And each time he does, it seems to make her expression softer, her eyes brighter.

He learns a lot through context, and along with that comes a lot of different vocabulary. Anger. Hate. Sad.

Homesick.

When that word finds its home in his brain, it finally clicks.

He isn’t surprised, then, to answer a knock on his door one afternoon after classes to find Petra standing there, arms around herself.

“Can I talk?” she asks in the simplest Brigid she’s spoken to him in half a moon.

“Always,” he answers back. She smiles at the word, and comes in, sitting herself on Ashe’s bed without a word. He moves to pour some of the tea he had luckily just brewed, handing it to her before taking his place next to her.

Silence falls over them. She sips lightly at the tea. He brewed it too strong, smell of mint filling the room, dancing a quiet waltz with the silence.

The dance ends as she finally speaks. “I’m homesick. And angry.”

Ashe had figured as much. He stays quiet as she keeps talking. In Brigid, naturally.

“I’m…lonely, homesick.” She’s trying to speak at Ashes level, slowly and simply, he knows. He fears she’s not saying everything she wants to. He curses himself, for not being better at this by now. “Sometimes, in the Black Eagles, I feel…” she pauses, “They mean well, and are very welcoming, but… I’m not Adrestian, and I don’t want to be.”

You shouldn't have to be, Ashe wants to say, but can't yet. "You’re wonderful,” he settles on, belatedly realizing he’s said the word in Duscur. Petra seems to understand anyway and corrects him. “You’re wonderful. And special. They’re…loaves of bread.”

Petra laughs brightly, “Loaves of bread?”

“They think like… loaves of bread?” He points to his head. “Loaves of bread.”

Petra tries to keep her chuckles contained, but she’s shaking for trying so hard. “I’m sorry. That’s just. Creative,” she says. ‘Creative’ is a word she has used a lot about Ashe’s language skills. He is glad his creativity seems to be making her feel better now.

“Speaking to you in Brigid,” she starts, “helps a lot. It’s nice, speaking in my own language. Even if you don’t understand everything.” She grips his hand, squeezes it. “My sweet loaf of bread.”

He turns his hand, lacing their fingers together, squeezing back. “I’m glad. I want to help.”

She smiles. “You do. Speaking to you in Brigid is like…having a piece of home.”

\---

“Cyril, dammit,” Ashe says in Almyran, “Stop teaching me bad words. It’s all I can fucking say.”

Cyril laughs at him. Typical. Ashe narrows his eyes at him.

“Sorry, sorry, but I said before I don’t remember that much,” Cyril says, all in Almyran. Ashe understands, all in Almyran. Ashe thinks his Almyran might be better than his other languages.

Shit.

But Cyril looks happy. He’s smiled and laughed more and more the past couple of moons. And he always seems to have fun when he teaches Ashe something new, even if that something is… not great.

Being able to express a wide range of emotion is important, Ashe tells himself. Cyril is just… giving him a new way of looking at life. A new, colorful way of looking at life.

And that’s what this was all about to begin with, anyway. To get to know Cyril better, to see things in a new light. And does he ever see Cyril differently.

Sure, he’s blunt. Harsh, sometimes. Very driven and focused on his tasks. But he takes the time to speak with Ashe, and even if not everything he teaches is something Ashe wants to know, it’s what Ashe needs to know. It’s what Cyril thinks is important. It’s what is important to Ashe’s _friend._

“Cyril, thank you,” he says suddenly. Cyril, still laughing, stops and cocks his head to stare at Ashe.

“For what?” he asks.

“For being my friend, even though I’m not all that great or interesting,” Ashe replies, in Fódlan.

Cyril’s head cocks the other way, “I don’t know what you mean by that. You’re pretty neat. You make me laugh a lot, that’s for sure.”

Ashe feels his face heat, his ears burning. “Thanks.”

Cyril looks at him with a curious expression, and Ashe feels his blush deepen.

When Cyril speaks, it’s in Almyran. “I’m glad we’re friends, too.”

\---

Ashe is glad that the tables have turned, and he is not the one left blushing, when at the end of the Ethereal Moon, during the Ball, he asks Dedue, Petra, and Cyril, each in turn, to dance with him.

In flowing Duscur, lyrical Brigid, and powerful Almyran.

For once, they’re the ones at a loss for words.

But during their dances, he can see their feelings clearly written on their faces. Joy, home, friendship.

He doesn’t need any words to understand that.

\---

Bonus:

Even during the war, he’s been practicing!

During those long, five years alone, he practiced speaking by himself. He knew he and his friends would meet again someday, and he wanted to greet them properly when they did.

Not to mention how skilled he became at cursing during battle, the powerful and trilling swears Cyril and Petra taught him slipping out just as easily as Fódlan occasionally.

He was so happy when Petra and Cyril returned for the promised meeting, overwhelmed when Dedue came home to them.

His friends, all here. All safe. He _has_ to tell them how much he cares for them and appreciates them.

In the Castle Gaspard library, he had found, amazingly, dictionaries of each of the languages. Leave it to Lonato to have had something like that.

It’s from these that he learned phrases in each of the languages to say, “thank you, I care for you, I appreciate you.” They were perfect! He only hopes he doesn’t mess it up.

\---

Dedue cannot believe what Ashe is telling him. It… Dedue never taught him this. Ashe says he learned it from a book, that it was a way to express gratitude.

That certainly is one way to express gratitude.

Ashe’s hand is suddenly on his forehead, and he’s speaking in Duscur. Duscur! “Are you okay? Your cheeks are so red? You’re not catching anything are you?”

Oh, Dedue’s not so sure.

\---

Petra cannot hear this right now. She and Ashe are friends, _friends,_ but there is a war. That being true, she still is expected to ascend the throne. And, she _has_ considered asking Ashe to join her in Brigid after the war as her knight. As her _knight_. As her _friend._

Does he want more? She hasn’t thought of him like that at all.

She thanks him, makes a flimsy excuse, and leaves quickly to ponder on it longer.

\---

Cyril laughs. He knows what Ashe wants to say, but still, he laughs, barely keeping it below a full guffaw.

“Very good, Ashe,” is all he says, before he returns the phrase. Ashe beams and it’s so earnest, so heartfelt that Cyril almost feels bad.

Almost.

\---

Later, the three meet up for their first teatime in 5 years.

They try to avoid the topic of war, not wanting to think about it in what’s supposed to be a relaxing time. But, inevitably, it keeps cropping up.

Cyril thinks of the perfect topic change. The question was burning at him, anyway.

“Did Ashe confess his undying love for you two?” Cyril asks.

They nod.

“Did you take it seriously?”

There’s a long pause.

“You know he meant to say something else, right?”

Neither answer. Their faces are red.

“He meant to say he appreciates us.”

Their flushes deepen.

“I mean, undying love is one way to show appreciation.”

Dedue coughs, “In Duscur, he said he would remain at my side for all time, picking me up when I fall.”

Petra hums, “Oh, that’s cute. But in Brigid, he told me I was the deepest oceans and the highest skies, and that he would take as long as it takes to reach me.”

Cyril scoffs, “Damn, in Almyran, he just said I love you. I’m kind of disappointed. I should teach him something better.”

“You’re going to confuse him,” Petra says in Duscur.

Cyril snorts, then says in Brigid, “I should teach him something raunchy.”

“Dammit, Cyril,” Dedue mumbles in Almyran.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I tried to be very careful with how I wrote Ashe going about his language learning and asking for help from his friends, but I still could have accidentally written something insensitive.  
> Please let me know if anything bothers you at all, if you feel comfortable doing so.
> 
> Also, I've never written Cyril before, but I loved writing him as chaotic good. I think he'll show up more in the future!
> 
> While I wanted to avoid using actual words, I DID have 3 real life languages in mind to describe Duscur, Brigid, and Almyran with.  
> Any guesses as to what they are?
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts!  
> Find me on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/JaybirdSpec)


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